Guards of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk and Fisher (Hawk & Fisher)

by Simon R. Green

  “You’re going to be executed. Your Majesty,” said Sir Roland. “You, and King Louis, and all the other hostages, save for those few like myself, who can be trusted to tell the story in the right way. Isn’t that right, Madigan?”

  “In a way.” said the terrorist. He looked at Ritenour, ignoring Sir Roland’s angry, puzzled gaze. “It’s time, sorcerer. Have you absorbed enough magic from the House?”

  “Yes,” said Ritenour, putting down his empty glass and patting his mouth delicately with a folded napkin. “It’s been a slow process. I couldn’t risk hurrying it, or the build-up of power would have been noticed by those monitoring the situation from outside. But your hostage negotiations brought me the time I needed. I’m ready now. We can begin.”

  “Begin?” snapped Sir Roland. “Begin what?” He started toward Madigan, and then stopped as the mercenaries raised their swords threateningly. “What is this, Madigan? What is he talking about?”

  Madigan looked at him calmly. “You didn’t really think I’d settle for just the Kings and a handful of hostages, did you? That wouldn’t have had nearly enough impact. No, traitor, my hatred for the Low Kingdoms and Outremer Parliaments requires a more extravagant gesture than killing two political figureheads and a crowd of toadying hangers-on. I’m going to destroy your whole city. Starting with everyone in this House. Do it, sorcerer.”

  Ritenour grinned, and gestured sharply. An oppressive weight fell across the room, crushing everyone to their knees, except for Madigan, Glen, and Ritenour. Hostages and mercenaries alike screamed and cursed and moaned in horror as the life drained slowly out of them. A few tried to crawl to the door, dragging themselves painfully across the rich pile carpet, but Glen moved quickly to block their way, grinning broadly. The victims clawed and clutched at each other, but one by one their eyes glazed and their breathing slowed, and the sorcerer Ritenour glowed like the sun. Stolen lives boiled within him, the mounting energy pressing against his controlling wards, and he laughed aloud as his new power beat within him like a giant heart. The glow faded away as his control firmed, and he looked slowly around him. Lifeless bodies covered the floor from wall to wall. Mercenaries in their chain mail, hostages in their finery, and the two Kings, staring up at the ceiling with empty eyes. Ritenour wanted to shout and dance and shriek with glee. He looked triumphantly at Madigan, who bowed formally. Over by the doorway, Glen was giggling. They all looked round sharply as they heard hurried footsteps approaching down the corridor outside, and then relaxed as Horn and Eleanour Todd appeared in the doorway. Horn and Todd looked briefly at the bodies on the floor, and then nodded to Madigan.

  “Everyone inside Champion House’s walls is now dead, Daniel,” said Todd briskly. “Everyone but us, of course.”

  Horn laughed. “You should have seen the mercenaries’ faces when the spell hit them! Dropped like flies, they did.”

  “We’ll have to move fast,” said Todd, ignoring Horn. “The mercenaries out in the grounds are unaffected, but it won’t be long before the city sorcerers watching this place realize something’s happened. They’ll hold off for a while out of caution, but once they realise there’s no longer any contact with anyone inside the House, they’ll come charging in here like a brigade of cavalry to the rescue.”

  “They’ll be too late,” said Madigan calmly. “By the time they’ve worked up their courage, the ritual will have taken place. And then it will be too late for many things.”

  Horn chuckled quietly, brimming with good humor as he stirred a dead body with his foot. “You know, in a few minutes we’re going to do what no army’s been able to do for centuries. We’re going to destroy the city of Haven, and grind it into the dust. They’ll write our names in the history books.”

  “If we don’t get a move on, they’ll write it on our tomb-stones,” growled Todd.

  Madigan raised a hand, and they fell silent. “It’s time, my friends. Let’s do it.”

  Down below the parlour’s double windows, Hawk was clinging grimly to the thick, matted ivy that covered the ancient stone wall. Fisher was clinging equally grimly to his waist and trying to dig her boots into the greenery. Hawk clenched his hands around the ivy, and dug his feet deeper into the thick, spongy mass. For the moment it was holding his weight and Fisher’s, but already he could hear soft tearing sounds as parts of the ivy pulled away from the wall. Fisher tested the mass of leaves under her feet with some of her weight, and when it held she cautiously transferred her hands to the vines, one at a time, taking care not to throw Hawk off balance as she did so. They both froze where they were for a moment, and struggled to get their harsh breathing back under control.

  “Tell me something,” said Fisher. “Did you know this ivy was here when you jumped out the window?”

  “Oh, sure,” said Hawk. “I saw it when I looked out the windows that first time. Mind you, I was only guessing it would hold our weight. But it looked pretty thick. Besides, under the circumstances we didn’t have much choice. Didn’t you know about the ivy?”

  “No. I just assumed you had something in mind. You usually do.”

  “I’m touched. You want your head examined, but I’m touched.”

  They grinned at each other, and then looked carefully about them.

  “All right, clever dick, what do we do now?” said Fisher.

  “There’s a window directly below us. We climb down, break the glass with as little noise as possible, and climb in. And we’d better do it quickly, before some bright spark up above thinks to look out the window to see where we landed.”

  They slowly clambered down the thick carpet of green leaves, which creaked and tore under their weight, but still clung stubbornly to the wall. Hawk wondered vaguely if perhaps the magic in the House’s walls had somehow affected the vines as well, but didn’t have time to dwell on the matter. He was pretty sure they couldn’t be seen against the ivy in the evening gloom, but once someone discovered their bodies weren’t where they were supposed to be, all hell would break loose. He pushed the pace as much as he dared, but while it was only a few more feet down to the third-floor window, it seemed like miles.

  He grabbed at another strand of ivy as he lowered himself toward the window, and it came away in his hand. He swung out away from the wall, holding desperately on with his other hand, suddenly all too aware of the long drop beneath him. He tried to pull himself back towards the wall, and the vine creaked threateningly. Fisher saw what was happening and reached out a hand to grab him. She couldn’t reach him, and pushed herself further out from the wall. The whole mass of ivy beneath her ripped away from the wall, and she fell like a stone. Hawk snatched at her as she fell past him, and grasped her hand in his. She jerked to a halt and swung back towards the wall. Her feet thudded to a halt beside the third-floor window, but there was no ivy within reach of her free hand or her feet, which she could use to stabilize herself. She hung beneath Hawk, twisting and turning, and his mouth gaped soundlessly in agony as her weight pulled at his arm, threatening to tear it from its socket. The vine he clung to jerked and gave under his other hand as their combined weight pulled it from the old stone wall bit by bit.

  “Drop me,” said Fisher.

  “Shut up,” said Hawk quickly. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

  “You’ve got to let me go, Hawk,” said Fisher, her voice calm and steady. “If you don’t, our weight is going to rip the ivy right off that wall, and we’re both going to die.”

  “I won’t let you go. I can’t.”

  “If you die, who’s going to avenge me? Do you want those bastards to get away with it? Do it, Hawk. While there’s still time. Just tell me you love me, and let go. Please.”

  “No! There’s another way! There has to be another way.” Hawk thought furiously as the ivy jerked and trembled beneath his hand. “Isobel, use your feet to push yourself away from the wall. Get yourself swinging, work up a good momentum, and then crash right through the bloody window!”

  “Hawk,” said Fisher, “that
is the dumbest plan you’ve ever come up with.”

  “Have you got a better idea?”

  “Good point. Brace yourself, love.”

  Hawk set his teeth against the awful pain in his shoulder, and clutched desperately at the ivy as though he could hold it to the wall by sheer willpower. Sweat ran down his face, and his breathing grew fast and ragged. Fisher pushed herself away from the wall, swinging out over the long drop, back and forth, back and forth. It seemed to take forever to build up any speed, like a child trying to get a swing moving on its own. She could hear Hawk panting and groaning above her, and she could tell both their hands were getting dangerously sweaty. She pushed hard against the wall, swinging out and away, and then twisted her arm slightly so that she was flying back towards the window. The heavy glass loomed up before her, and she tucked her knees up to her chest. Her heels hit the glass together, and the window shattered. She flew into the room beyond, and fell clumsily to the floor as Hawk’s hand was jerked out of hers by the impact. She scrambled to her feet and was there at the window to catch him as he half climbed, half fell through the window. They clung to each other, shaking and trembling and gasping for breath.

  “Drop you?” said Hawk, eventually. “Did you really think I’d do a dumb thing like that?”

  Fisher shrugged. “It seemed a good idea at the time. But your idea was better. For a change.”

  “I will rise above that remark. Go and take a look out the door. The amount of noise we made crashing in here, someone must have heard us.”

  Fisher nodded, and padded over to the door, sword in hand. She eased it open a crack, looked out into the corridor, and then looked back at Hawk and shook her head. He nodded, and collapsed gratefully into the nearest chair.

  “I hate heights.”

  “You needn’t think you’re going to sit there and rest,” said Fisher mercilessly. “We haven’t got the time. We’ve got to figure out what the hell we’re going to do next. Our original plan was based on us having the element of surprise, and we’ve blown that. So what do we do? Get the hell out of here, tell the Council we failed, and they’d better start getting the ransom money together? Or do we stick around, and see if maybe we can pick off the terrorists one by one?”

  “No,” said Hawk reluctantly. “We can’t risk that. They’d just start executing the hostages, in reprisal. Standard terrorist tactic, But, on the other hand, we can’t afford to leave just yet. We need more information about what’s going on here.” He frowned suddenly, and looked intently at Fisher. “You know, we could be all that’s left of the SWAT team. Barber and MacReady are dead, Winter’s hiding somewhere in a panic, and Storm’s trapped outside, unable to reach us. Whatever happens now, it’s down to us.”

  Fisher smiled and shrugged. “As usual. Mind you, Saxon’s still around here somewhere. At least, I suppose he is. He disappeared during the fighting.”

  Hawk sniffed. “Yeah, well, Saxon didn’t exactly strike me as being too stable, even at the best of times. Hardly surprising, I suppose, after spending all those years trapped in the Portrait. I just hope he hasn’t had a relapse, ripped all his clothes off, and reverted back to the way he was when we first met him. That’s all we need.”

  “I don’t know,” said Fisher. “If nothing else, a naked, bloodthirsty madman stalking the corridors would make one hell of a distraction.” Hawk gave her a hard look, and she laughed. “I know; don’t tempt Fate. Come on, get up out of that chair. We’ve got work to do.”

  Hawk hauled himself out of the chair, stretched painfully, and together they moved silently over to the door and slipped out into the corridor, weapons at the ready. It was completely deserted, and deathly quiet. They moved cautiously down the corridor, and up the stairs to the next floor, but there was no trace of movement anywhere. Hawk scowled unhappily. They ought to have run across some kind of patrol by now. Madigan hadn’t struck him as the type to overlook basic security measures. He and Fisher hurried down the empty corridors, impelled by a strange inner sense of urgency, the only sound the quiet scuffling of their feet. They rounded a corner and then stopped abruptly as they discovered the first bodies. Two mercenaries lay sprawled on the floor, their bulging eyes fixed and sightless. Hawk and Fisher looked quickly about them, but there was no sign of any attackers. Hawk moved quickly forward, and knelt by the bodies to examine them while Fisher stood guard.

  “Could it have been Saxon?” said Fisher quietly. “After all, he killed twenty-seven mercenaries before he joined up with us.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Hawk. “I can’t find any wound, any cause of death. This stinks of magic.”

  “Maybe Storm finally broke through the House’s wards and decided to help.”

  “No. He’d have contacted us by now, if he could. And the only other sorcerer in this place belongs to Madigan.”

  They looked at each other. “Double cross?” said Fisher finally. “Maybe they had a falling out.”

  “Could be,” said Hawk. He got to his feet again, and hefted his axe thoughtfully. “I think we’d better head back to the main parlour and see if we can get a look at what’s happening there. I’m starting to get a really bad feeling about this.”

  They padded quickly down the corridor. As they made their way through the fourth floor they came across more and more bodies, and by the time they reached the corridor that led to the main parlour they were running flat out, no longer caring if anyone saw or heard them. They slowed down as they approached the parlour, stepping carefully around the dead mercenaries lying scattered the length of the hall. The parlour door stood open, and the air was still and silent as a tomb. Hawk and Fisher moved forward warily, weapons held out before them, and peered in through the doorway. The dead lay piled together, hostage and mercenary, so that it was almost impossible to tell them apart. Hawk and Fisher checked the room with a few quick, cursory glances, but it was obvious the killers were long gone. They examined some of the bodies for signs of life, just in case, but there were no survivors, and nothing to show how they died. There was no trace of Madigan or any of his people among the bodies, but they’d expected that. And then they found the two Kings, and the heart went out of them.

  “So it will be war, after all,” said Fisher dully. “We failed, Hawk. Everything we’ve done has been for nothing. Why did they do it? Why did they kill them all?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hawk. “But one thing’s clear now; the situation isn’t what we thought it was. Madigan never had any interest in the ransom money, or any of his other demands. He had his own secret agenda, and the hostages were just window dressing. A distraction, to keep us from guessing what he was really up to.”

  “But why kill his own men, too?” said Fisher. “He’s left the House practically undefended. It doesn’t make sense!”

  “It has to, somehow! Madigan’s not stupid or insane. He always has a reason, for what ever he’s doing.”

  Hawk! Fisher! Storm’s voice crashed into their minds like thunder, and they both winced. Listen to me! You must get down to the cellar immediately! Something’s happening down there. Something bad.

  What kind of something? snapped Hawk. We’ve got our own problems. The Kings and the hostages are all dead.

  Forget them! Ritenour’s getting ready to perform a forbidden ritual. No wonder Madigan chose him; he’s a shaman as well as a sorcerer.

  Fisher looked at Hawk. “What’s a shaman?”

  “Some kind of specialized sorcerer, I think. Deals with spirits of the dead, stuff like that.” Storm! Talk to us; what’s happening down in the cellar? Is it part of Madigan’s plan?

  Yes. They’re going to open the Unknown Door.

  What?

  Run, damn you! Get to the cellar while there’s still time. A storm is building in the Fields of the Lord, and the beasts are howling, howling....

  Down in the cellar, Ritenour was on his knees, painstakingly drawing a blue chalk pentacle on the floor. Glen and Eleanour Todd watched with interest, while Madigan s
tood a little apart, his gaze turned inward. Horn padded up and down at the base of the stairs, scowling impatiently. He didn’t trust Ritenour, and deep down he didn’t trust the spell to do what it was supposed to. Madigan had explained the plan to him many times, and he still didn’t really understand it. He had no head for magic, and never had. His scowl deepened. It was bad enough they were depending on untried magic to destroy Haven, but they were also dependent on Ritenour, and Horn didn’t trust that shifty-eyed kid-killer any further than he could throw him.

  It had all seemed different, up in the main parlour. He’d been happy and confident and full of enthusiasm for the plan, then. But now he was down in the gloom of the cellar, the only illumination a single lamp on the wall, and his mood had changed, darkened. He didn’t like the cellar. The place felt bad; spoiled, on some elemental level. He shuddered suddenly, and made a determined effort to throw off the pessimistic mood. Everything was going to be fine. Madigan had said so, and he understood these things. Horn trusted Madigan. He had to, or nothing in his life had meaning anymore.

  He deliberately turned his back on the sorcerer, and scowled nervously up the stairs. He kept thinking he heard movement somewhere up above, just beyond the point where the light gave way to an impenetrable darkness. It was just nerves. There couldn’t be anyone there. The sorcerer had killed them all. For a moment his imagination showed him dead bodies rising to their feet and stumbling slowly through the House, making their way down to the cellar to take a hideous revenge on those who had killed them. Horn shook his head, dismissing the thought. He’d killed many men in his time, and none of them had ever come back for revenge. It took a lot of magic to resurrect the dead, and the only sorcerer in Champion House was Ritenour. Horn breathed deeply, calming himself. Not long now, and then the ritual would be under way. Once started, nothing could stop it. And his long-awaited vengeance on Outremer would finally begin. He looked round sharply as Ritenour rose awkwardly to his feet, his knees making loud cracking sounds in the quiet.